


Winterfell

by chiixil_84



Series: Beyond the Throne [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Asoiaf - Fandom, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eventual Relationships, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Game of Thrones Spoilers, Gen, GoT, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiixil_84/pseuds/chiixil_84
Summary: There were very few things in life that the Hound was certain of about himself; the first was that he was a bloody decent fighter; secondly, his lifetime of fighting has left him with many, many scars that left seemingly otherwise normal people intimidated or repulsed by his presence; and, finally, that he, his brother, and every other person bound to the Clegane banner would be born, live, and die under house Lannister’s rule as their rabid dogs.Though he long accepted his role in this world as a kill for hire, it made his skin crawl that as young as the Lannister queen was, the Hound was even younger than she was. He knew he would die young, if the rate in which her family threw their status around was anything to go off of.It didn't mean he had to accept every cruel action his masters performed, however.-AKA, I absolutely hated how that episode went and Sansa deserved a better interaction with Sandor.





	Winterfell

He’d gone beyond the Wall with a group of some brave ( _stupid_ ) men, spending several days nearly freezing his cock off before fighting for his life against hordes of undead, with dragon fire searing over their heads as the dead continued to swarm their little island. They barely escaped with their lives, and their only reward was a rotting, stinking Wight in a box that wouldn’t shut up.

Then, the Hound followed this merry band of fuck-alls back to King’s Landing, where that cunt of a queen sat as the Protector of the Realm, a role two of her three deceased children had recently shared shortly before her own coronation, and the Lannister woman had the audacity to ask the Dragon Queen if mutts and traitors bedded better than Dothraki and their horses.

Now, he was just shy of Winterfell, the Targaryen queen’s full war band marching along the Northern countryside as if it were merely a stroll along the King’s Road.

He’d only been here one other time, nearly a lifetime ago it felt like, but it felt like he was experiencing it for the first time all over again.

The North was exceedingly frigid in its embrace, its weather sending bitter shards of ice down his spine with each howl of the wind, and it kept getting colder the longer they trekked. Its people were even harsher, sending the Hound disgusting looks as he passed them in the motorcade with the Conquering Queen.

Some of them remembered his face when Robert Baratheon had come through the North hardly a few years ago; surely, the North would not forget his ugly face, nor that he’d been sworn to a house that committed terrible atrocities against the forgotten people of the North.

It could be worse, he supposed. He could have been imprisoned, or – worse – drawn on foot by Dothraki horses all the way from King’s Landing to the halls of Winterfell.

 _It could be worse_ , he thought once more, his eyes moving far along the motorcade to the white hills where he knew Winterfell hid behind.

The snow became heavier the closer to the keep they traveled, as did the sting of the Winter winds. He remembered, as the Lannister’s dog, piling furs onto his Southern armor to seek some relief from the chill, but nothing helped.

But that had been _before_  Winter had come, and now that it was here, he felt like no warmth would ever give him a reprieve from this cold.

He fucking hated it.

Entering Winterfell had been a sight similar (yet so different) to his first trip with the Baratheons. The lords and ladies of the North stood in some fashion behind the receiving Starks, these status-driven fools looking some version of comfortable (almost _bored_ ) as they wore what seemed to be light-weather furs. The only truly nervous ones seemed to be the Starks themselves – still children, yet something more now.

When he and Stranger trotted through the gate with the queen’s guard, the high walls of the dark stone keep gave an odd contrast to the snow-filled sky, sending everything else to a shade somewhere between: pale, stern faces were framed in black hair and furs, dark and distrusting eyes searching the motorcade with an edge of steel so vicious it could have cut them to shreds by now, clouds of white fog escaping their blood-red lips like steam from a war machine.

Despite everything going on in the courtyard of Winterfell, his gaze fell upon the fiery head of the Lady of Winterfell.

Honestly, he couldn’t help it.

Hair even more brilliant than the half-dozen pit fires roaring beside the silent court, the Lady of Winterfell stood out like a lone brazier in a sea of dragon glass, her hair styled in a way that was leagues better than the ugly braids the Lannisters had opted for the then-blossoming young woman. It was almost as if he were looking at that same girl, now, but her body language showed she was anything but the naïve little girl he’d known back at King’s Landing.

No, he was certain she’d seen her own bit of shit that steeled the little welp into something far deadlier.

(As if to make himself feel better, knowing that he watched the little wolf bitch grow into something fierce only solidified the testament that Sansa, in a den of starving lions and poisonous vipers and choking weeds, would have had to grow just as deadly to survive the Hell the Lannisters no doubt put her through.)

Jon nearly leaped from his horse to greet his young half-siblings, ignoring most protocol a receiving lord would give to the travel weary. The young man busied himself with bear hugs and whispers of affection the Hound had never known with his own siblings, the Starks sharing looks of pure relief and love that could have melted the most bitter of Winter’s worst snow.

Though his eyes never strayed from the Lady of Winterfell, her surveying gaze never met his.

As the motorcade disbanded as the pleasantries were (thankfully) cut short, the only introductions made were of the Dragon Queen to the surviving custodians of Winterfell.

For the better, he supposed. Half of the Dragon Queen's guard was made up of people who had wanted or have tried to kill the Starks, and they were better for holding them at a distance.

Slipping off of Stranger to guide him to the stables, his heavy footfalls almost sent him back to years prior – before the cunt of a prince had gained a liking to torture, before the honorable ( _doubly fucking stupid_ ) Ned Stark had his dumb fucking head cut off, before the Starks left this fortress in the North where no one dared visit – and the Hound almost laughed at his own stupidity.

 _Of course, things are different now,_  he chastised himself, shaking his head to rid himself of the haunting memories of growls against songs.  _A lady is in no need for a dog when she herself is a wolf._

Perhaps it was best that the Lady of Winterfell had forgotten about him.

**-o-o-o-**

Nearly a week later, he no longer felt the same way.

Every roll call, every meeting, every pass in the courtyard, her gaze remained high and far ahead as she passed him, despite the fact that she gave even the slightest courtesy of a nod to some of his companions yet did not dare to even  _look_  at him.

Of course, he’d never been able to find her here as easily he had back at King’s Landing. This was her element, her  _birthright_ , and she knew it much better than a blundering idiot like him. Every time he thought he’d seen her fiery hair over the crowds and would turn to face her, he’d catch the briefest image of her entourage but never the Lady of Winterfell herself. Attempting to follow the entourage only left him with the better part of the afternoon stuck rerouting himself through this damned maze of a castle.

It was no longer a game he enjoyed playing, a dog searching for his little bird.

Tonight, with a few flagons of wine burning a deep yet warm hole within his gut, he’d gone to wander Winterfell as it prepared for its siege. He did not take more than a few steps from the great hall before catching sight of the flaming hair once more, the Lady of Winterfell a sight not easily missed in this sea of dragon glass and ice. Off to her left was Yohn Royce, his greying hair and blue-silver armor odd contrast against the Lady. The two exchanged scrolls as they wandered the courtyard, leaning in to whisper to one another as they prepared.

And their path would lead them right before him.

The Hound took another swig from the bota he’d snagged at dinner, stepping into a wooden stall and leaning against its outermost pillar, casually watching as the two wandered ever closer. He could almost hear the soft lilt in her voice as she spoke, her words as fleeting as the snowfall as the forges hammered on around them but the song there all the same.

She came to pause at a nearby stall, the Vale’s knight and the Lady of Winterfell going over a series of dragon glass weapons with Winterfell’s forge master, with the smell of herbs and woodsmoke drifting over to him with each pass of the wind.

He waited, his heart beating in his chest harder than any battle he’d ever been in, the bota stilled at his lips as he watched her.

It almost reminded him of the moments before the Blackwater when she had bid Joffrey a half-hearted wish of luck, though this Northern wine happened to be the worst shite he’d ever gotten drunk off of before a battle and the Lady of Winterfell was no longer the Lannister’s pet.

The two eventually left the stall, and the Lady of Winterfell gave a soft greeting to the men beside him (“Thank you sers for your hard work; your continued contributions protect the North with each passing day will ensure our victory”), but she passed by the Hound yet again without giving him any acknowledgement.

“Little Bird!” he found himself calling, unable to stop himself.

They stopped a few paces away, Yohn half-turning to face him with a sneer on his wrinkled face. She kept her back turned to the Hound, but he could clearly hear the soft lilt in her voice turn sharp as she whispered to the old knight.

“My Lady,” the knight sighed, keeping his eyes on the Hound as he bowed his head to her.

But she didn’t leave.

A beat passed before the Hound called out again, feeling emboldened at her pause, “Little Bird, have you forgotten your dog so easily as you lie to these pathetic fools?”

“And what lie have I told?” came her cool reply, her head only slightly turned over her shoulder.  _Still_ , she refused to look at him.

The hole in his stomach grew hotter, and he fucking hated it.

Taking a long drag from the bota, he eventually replied, “Half of these fuckers won’t make it past the morning after the dead show up, let alone make it through this Gods-damned Winter. And you praise them for making some fucking rocks sharp?” He gave a harsh laugh, pushing himself off of the pillar. “These men have probably never known real battle, never even  _been_  around you, and yet you give them the courtesy of ‘ser’ when you haven’t even looked my direction?”

Yohn raised an eyebrow and shared a look with the Lady of Winterfell, the knight’s hand steady yet casually resting on his sword, but with a slight raise of her hand she turned to face the Hound, her dress hem making a small circle in the snow as she moved.

Those eyes he’d once thought clearer than any Summer’s sky had become ice as they steadied over him, her face eerily calm despite the steel of her gaze trying to cut through him. “That gives the indication that you deserve to be given the title ‘ser,’ which you have very vividly reminded me that you are  _not_.”

He opened his mouth wide, then shut it, and then opened it again as a retort bubbled just on the tip of his tongue – but just as quickly, she turned away and left, the knight of the Vale having to nearly run to keep up with the Lady of Winterfell.

The Hound cursed loudly as he threw his head back to drink the rest of the bota’s contents, only to find it empty.

“What a fucking night,” he growled, stalking back to the great hall to see if he could swipe another bota or two.

**-o-o-o-**

Turns out, the missing Northern wine had been noticed, and when the Hound tried to sneak in and take more, he was given a quick reprimand and sent away.

He ended up wandering the grounds until the early morning hours of the next day, eventually making his way to the walls that overlooked the Dothraki and Unsullied camps a stone throw’s away from the gate. The Hound quietly watched the Conquering Queen’s forces settling into their cold environment before making his way into the castle just before dawn, collapsing in his bedroom with feet like lead and a head ringing like the Sept’s bells on a holy day.

So exhausted, he didn’t even have the energy to kick off his muddied boots before crawling into the bed.

Feeling the weight of the stress of the night melt off of him the deeper into the soft ( _so fucking soft_ ) bed, the Hound sighed deeply and knew it’d take only a moment before he’d pass out.

The room was warm, the bed was inviting, and he felt like he could sleep through the Long Night.

Before he could slip deeper into the comfort, the door burst open.

Jumping halfway off the bed, the Hound turned, wide-eyed, at the intruder, snarling, “What the fuck do you want?”

His eyes narrowed on the one-eyed bastard as he stood at the door, his surprised expression turning into that ugly half-smile he always gave before going off on a sermon. “Come on, Clegane!” Beric said. “It’s a beautiful day! The dead will arrive soon. We must ready our bodies and our hearts before the battle.”

He didn’t know if he wanted to throw a pillow at the bastard or sink into the bedding and suffocate himself.

With another snarl, the Hound said, “Oh,  _fuck off_.”

Beric raised his arms, the smile widening.

Rolling his eyes, the Hound groaned as he slid off the bed, storming out of the room, mumbling curses under his breath. The one-eyed bastard barely jumped out of the way before the Hound barreled through, Beric as chipper as always as he shut the door behind them.

“What a day we’ll have, my friend,” the man said, clapping the Hound on the shoulder.

“Don’t fucking start,” came the grumbled reply.

Nonetheless, the Brother laughed, but said no more.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been ages but I've loved SanSan forever, but more for that "not quite a knight/too innocent for this world princess" angle. He's such an ass and I love writing him lol.
> 
> I hated how Season 8 ended, but whatever! It was fun while it lasted, and gave me a ton of inspiration.
> 
> (This was actually written BEFORE S8 went on the air?? So like, I was screaming during the interaction they had lol)


End file.
